CHAPTER SEVEN
For a while after LeStrade left, Sherlock seemed to ramble about the flat, picking up all the details of any slight changes that had happened since he left. All of his lab supplies that once sat on the kitchen table now sat in a box in the corner—the only packing done by Mrs. Hudson. He found a broken mug that he often used in the trash bin which he rightly deduced that John had thrown against the wall in anger. He was pleased to see his skull hadn't moved—an ode to the man who treasured it. He was happy to be home, but why didn't he feel happier with himself?
John watched him for some time, in no doubt of his conflicted feelings. He knew he needed to distract him somehow. Sherlock may be back, but it only looked like him—he certainly didn't act it. Without a case, he would usually be driving him insane and possibly even shooting the wall. Now, he was somber, reflective and sad. John decided to risk a question.
"Would you like to go visit Molly?"
Sherlock instantly looked at him. "Why would I?"
"Just to visit. Maybe she knows of a suspicious death or something."
Sherlock knitted his brows with an angry look, but went back to looking at skull. "I guess we could. LeStrade seemed to have nothing."
"Great!"
But at that time an unexpected visitor showed up—Mycroft.
"Oh, hello," greeted John.
"Good morning, gentlemen. I see you both are settling back in to the flat nicely. Home, sweet home."
Sherlock kept his attention to the mantle and John made an expression to Mycroft that not everything was hunky-dory.
He showed concern for his brother, but said nothing.
"LeStrade has come to see us," John added.
"Ah! Good. How did he take the resurrection of Sherlock Holmes?"
"In varied degrees, I'd say," John replied.
"You're unusually quiet, brother."
"Has no-one been murdered in this city lately?" he blurted out as he swirled around to see him.
"Ha-ha! Bored already. That's more like it!"
"We were going to see Molly and see if anything odd has shown up," interjected John.
"Molly?" asked Mycroft.
John nodded and Mycroft noticed Sherlock was back to rubbing his skull.
"Uh, yes, yes, that would be an idea." Although never bothered with affairs of the heart himself, he could see that his brother was afflicted a great deal. He was unsure what to do, but he knew one thing: he was in danger. "I can give you a ride there," he suggested.
"No, I've changed my mind," Sherlock declared all of a sudden.
"Why?" the two other men asked.
"Am I not allowed to change my mind? Where's the newspaper?" He began to rummage around violently. He called out for Mrs. Hudson.
After a minute she came up and said hello to Mycroft, who replied back.
"Do you have today's paper?" Sherlock impatiently asked.
"Oh, yes." She ran back down, bringing up the paper shortly. He madly went through it.
"Nothing, nothing, boring, dull, nothing." He slammed the paper down upon the coffee table. "What? I'm gone, so no laws are broken any longer? No murders, no jewels stolen, no impossible break-ins? Arg!"
The other three simply stared at the debacle. He looked up and saw their faces. He got up and began to grab his coat.
"Where are you going?" John asked.
"Out."
"Presumably, but where?"
But Sherlock ran out without another word, leaving the others wondering.
"Oh, dear, poor boy," Mrs. Hudson sympathized, but then went back down stairs.
"John, please watch him as well as you can. This is unchartered territory we're going into. I have no idea how he's going to react."
"I can only do my best, Mycroft, but I can't make any promises."
"He needs us, but I'm afraid he needs Molly, too. He's torn."
"But he doesn't need to be. I don't think he knows that." He thought for a second. "Has he never had a girlfriend before?"
"I don't believe he had even had a friend—before you."
Mycroft took his leave, reiterating his request for vigilance. John was left worrying.
Sherlock wandered about for some time. Without thinking, he made his way to St. Bart's. A familiar face greeted him. "Sherlock!"
"Stamford," he replied with a firm handshake. The man's perpetual smile was contagious.
"When I heard about the faking of your suicide, I cannot tell you how happy I was!"
"Thank you." He was genuinely pleased.
"I'm on a bit of a break, care for a coffee?"
Sherlock smiled. "Yes, that sounds good."
The man was a good distraction for Sherlock, at least until his concentration waned, but the man did have a few interesting stories of cases that had passed through the hospital. Upon discussing some of his interns, however, Sherlock grew bored again. The visit, though, proved to calm him and slow his thoughts down. He still wanted to see Molly.
He left Stamford and slowly made his way to the morgue. There she was, the origin of his confusion, looking so innocent behind the lab table with her ponytail askew. She was shocked to see him again so soon.
"Hello," she nervously said with a timid smile.
"Hello."
"I'm surprised to see you, that is, I'm glad, but—"
"I know."
"How are you?"
His eyes looked around wildly ad he subtly shook his head. He looked like he was going mad.
"Me, too," was her surprising reply.
He came around and dropped himself onto a stool. With his elbows on the table, he placed his face into his long hands. "Damn," he muttered.
Molly wanted to cry at the sight. She instinctively rubbed his back. She knew an inner battle was going on in his mind, but no-one could help him. It was something he was going to have to work out himself.
He rubbed his face and looked at her. He then placed his hands on her face and gave her a strong kiss. He then stared at her, breathing hard as if she gave him his very breath.
"Sherlock, you're killing yourself. You're killing me," she said softly.
"I know."
"I hate to tell you the obvious, but this can't go on. You're going to have to make up your mind, and just because you choose one way of life doesn't mean you are completely giving up the other. Do you want a relationship with me?" She surprised herself with her own courage, but it had to be asked.
He looked at her with child-like innocence, which, in a way, it was. "I…I think so."
She wanted to scream with happiness, but held herself back. She had to say one thing. "Good, but that doesn't mean you have to leave the life you love. I would never stop you from doing what you do. The world needs Sherlock Holmes."
He looked down, still with a sad face.
She leaned in and spoke softly, "And it's not like John would stop being your friend, either. It is only a matter of time before he finds someone, too."
He looked suddenly up at her with a terse expression. He had never thought of that. "You're right," he finally admitted. "You're right…"
"Plus neither of you would forfeit your friendship for anything or anyone, and I would never ask you to. I consider him a friend as well!"
He looked back down in thought, but breathing easier, and she came up to him, placing his head upon her heart. He slowly raised his arms to hold her and still couldn't believe how amazing it felt—and how right.
Then, miraculously, and without really thinking, he quietly said, "I love you, Molly Hooper."
She stopped breathing for a second, and he could hear her heart pounding ridiculously. Half crying, she replied, "I love you, too, Sherlock Holmes."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Molly and Sherlock decided to meet later at her flat. She wasn't home five minutes when a soft knock at her door was heard. She opened it and in he came swiftly. Without a word, he gave a strong kiss, while turning her around, simultaneously shutting the door behind them.
"Sherlock!" she exclaimed.
The sound of his name being shouted from her only made him crazier. He swirled her onto the couch, kissing her all the while. She broke out laughing.
"Look, look, we need to talk," she implored through her laughter.
"Talking's boring," he mumbled into her neck.
She knew there was no arguing with him, so she gave in. She really didn't mind.
Eventually, things calmed down and she got him to talking. He got up and nervously wandered about. Molly studied him as he did so.
"I really think going slow about, well, us, is best for you," she advised. "I know you're not ready to move out of Mrs. Hudson's, and I can understand that."
"You can?" he asked with true amazement. He didn't know there was a woman who existed that would be that patient with him.
"Yes," she answered gently.
"I'm not, actually."
"That's what I thought. I'm just happy to be in your life."
"You've always been, at least, for a few years now."
"I mean, a part of your life."
"Oh."
She smiled at him. In a way, he was so innocent about it all. She knew she was going to have to muster up even more patience than she usually had with him. He knew nothing about having a girlfriend. Girlfriend. Was that what she was?!
"I said, do you have any more tea?" interrupted her train of thought.
"Huh? Oh, sure."
She fixed the tea and noticed his distracted look. "Are you okay?"
"Yes. No. I need a case."
"Has John started up his blog again?"
He picked his head up. "I don't know." He went over to her computer and found the site. There it was. It looked as if John had updated it that very day. He wrote of Sherlock's return from death eloquently and with affection. Sherlock was touched. He was not used to all this attention and love and it felt uncomfortable to him.
He shook himself away from his thoughts and said aloud, "Now, if LeStrade would just call me with the usual amount of confusion the Yard has over the simplest of cases, I'll be in business."
"Well, here's hoping for a good murder," proclaimed Molly. "Oh, gosh, that sounds horrible." She looked at him, intensely reading John's blog over again, and was in disbelief for a moment that he was there, in her flat, being lovely. She couldn't believe he had taken down his barriers for her. He loved her. "How would you like some wine?" she inquired. She was feeling romantic.
"More tea would be great," he answered without hearing the question.
She chuckled then got closer. "I said, would you like some wine?"
"Huh? Oh, uh… Okay, sure." He picked up her phone and texted John. "I really must get a new phone."
"Yes. We can take care of that this weekend."
Every time she said 'we' or 'us' or anything remotely denoting them as a couple, he winced. This did not go unnoticed by Molly. However, she didn't let it phase her. She was getting used to the idea that this was going to be a relationship like she had never had before. This one was going to take time—lots of time. "Patience," she told herself.
John picked up his phone and read the text that had come through, "Won't be home tonight. Text if client comes. –SH." He laughed and shook his head. He must be at Molly's, he thought. The idea of Sherlock being out of the flat and out of his hair made him feel as if his parents were gone for the night. "Well, what's stopping me?" He decided to hit the local pub.
He made his way out, chuckling all the way. "Sherlock's got a girlfriend! And it's Molly!" It provided him with the walk's entertainment.
The pub was crowded. A great and very important football match was to be coming on the big screen television at any moment, and he wondered if he should join the throng or find a quiet corner. He then caught a glimpse of a familiar face. "Greg!"
The detective inspector turned to see John and greeted him with joy.
"What are you doing here?" John asked.
"Ah, I made a bet against Anderson on this match and we decided to watch it together. He lives not too far from here."
"You're kidding."
"Nope. Plus, it got me out of the house."
John made a sour face. "Things still not well?"
"Not really, no. Better just to stay out of each other's face at this stage. Where's Sherlock?" He looked around, certain to see the wiry man summing up everyone in the place.
A huge grin came to John's face. "Oh, he's with his girlfriend."
LeStrade barely let the words come out of John's mouth. "Girlfriend?! Sherlock Holmes? I didn't think he knew what to do with a woman if he had one!"
John laughed, "Well, I guess she's teaching him."
"Who?"
With extreme pride, he replied, "Molly!"
"What? No. Molly Hooper? But he's always such a beast to her!"
"True, but that's her cross to bear, if she wishes."
Greg sat down on a stool in disbelief. John noticed that the man seemed to be more put out with Sherlock seeing Molly than surprise that Sherlock was dating at all.
"Something wrong?" he asked, but before he could reply, Anderson came up with a couple of beers.
"Hi, Watson," he said passively. "Here, boss." He gave a pint to Greg, who gratefully took a swig.
John pondered Greg's almost angry look. "Do you have a problem with them dating?"
"Who?" asked Anderson.
"No, of course not," answered Greg.
"Who's dating?" Anderson asked again.
"Everyone knows he may sound vicious, but he doesn't mean to. She's aware of how he is. It's her choice."
"Who?!" exclaimed Anderson.
"I know, but, well, he is a bit high-maintenance for her. I guess I feel she deserves better, that's all."
"Arg! Would you tell me who?!"
"Who, then?" John asked without paying attention to Anderson. "You, maybe? Don't you think that if there is someone out there who can put up with all his idiosyncrasies and all his faults and still have affection for him, that he deserves her? You can have anybody—"
"Not anybody," interjected Greg.
"Well, a normal amount of people then, but who the hell is going to have patience for him?!"
Anderson gave up and went to the loo.
"Look, don't get me wrong, John, I'm not saying he doesn't deserve someone, just…just—"
"Not Molly?"
"Yeah," he finally admitted.
John didn't know whether to be defensive for Sherlock or sorry for LeStrade. It was clear the man was seeing the fate of his own relationship coming to an end and saw Molly as someone he would have liked to have gone out with. John shook his head and looked down. "I'm sorry, Greg, really, I am, but if anyone in this world needs to learn how to use the heart that I know lingers somewhere in that messed up psyche of his, it's Sherlock Holmes."
There was a loud commotion as the teams made their way onto the pitch.
Greg simply said, "You're right… I know. You're right."
John stayed and watched the game with the others. As he walked home afterwards, he didn't chuckle this time. Instead, he pondered. He knew what it was like to have his heart broken. It was like suffering a small death. What if things didn't work out between Sherlock and Molly? He recalled how the man reacted to Irene's 'death'. Would he have at least learned how to love, or would he then shun love forever? It made him uneasy. All he wanted was for everyone to be happy.
The following morning brought the sun to shining with all the glory it possessed. Molly, for the first time, woke up in Sherlock's arms in her bed. As much love as she felt for him, a little qualm of fear lurked within her. She realized at that moment just how much she cared for him. She never wanted this to end. This was heaven on earth to be held by him and to hear his heart beating so soundly in her ear. He was exquisite. The thought of losing him chilled her to the bone. He could never be replaced.
She dared not move. She wanted this moment to last forever. She stared at his profile and for one second, saw his eyes open to see her, but they then closed as if he had not woken up at all. He did, however, grip her shoulder just a bit more tightly.
Eventually, life set in. Her alarm went off, destroying the Elysium that existed. The man opened his eyes all the way and studied his lady. She smiled at him and he simply said, "You have a grey hair."
"You really know how to charm a girl, don't you? Try 'good morning'."
"Oh! Good morning."
"Besides, you probably gave it to me."
"I don't believe it's contagious, besides, I don't have any."
"No, silly. It's because you stress me out!" She tickled his ribs for revenge. Who would have thought Sherlock Holmes was ticklish? Yet, he was.
They laughed for a bit, but she got up to get ready.
"Where are you going?" he asked with the tone of a child.
"I have to get ready for work!"
"Work is boring," he grumbled.
"It can be, but amazingly, having fun doesn't pay the rent!" She gave him a good, strong kiss then proceeded to get ready. Sherlock stayed in bed, pouting.
She prepared for work quickly, but had to stop to laugh at the sight of Sherlock wearing his coat as a robe and sitting on the sofa.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing. Maybe I should buy you a robe for here."
He shrugged his shoulders. "This works."
She looked at him funny with a soft smile and sat down beside him.
"Yes?"
"I wonder if anyone thinks about how you can be so easy going at times."
"Me?!" Even to himself, that seemed preposterous.
"Yes, as long as you have a case, or kept busy, you're happy. Well, at least lately."
He smiled without replying.
"You used to look so sad."
He stopped smiling and looked down. "It helps when someone takes the time to…" he began, but trailed off.
"To what?"
Sherlock played with the buttons on his coat. "Let's just say a lot has changed since I 'died'."
She didn't know if that referred to her or just a general gratitude toward the people he realized were his friends.
She noticed the time, gave a quick peck to his cheek and said good-bye.
"Okay, bye," he said quickly and curled up in fetal position in protest.
She laughed and said, "I love you!"
He mumbled something inaudible and she left, still laughing.
